


Down and out

by SympatriCuckoo



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Child Neglect, Choking, Degradation, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Likely triggering, M/M, Prostitution, Rape, Sadism, Tragedy, Vaginal Prolapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6601183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SympatriCuckoo/pseuds/SympatriCuckoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>You, on the other hand, like to strip completely; like to relish in the waiting; love the wide-eyed look of expectation he shoots you over his shoulder, bent of the toilet as he is. You love the way he fidgets out of desire to complete the transaction.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em>But you take your time, neatly hanging up your clothing. After all, you bought this: his time and his body, and you’re damned sure you’re not going to let the whore rush you.</em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>He doesn’t get control.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Down and out

**Author's Note:**

> An unsolicited fic based on that art by creampiesummer on tumblr (http://creampiesummer.tumblr.com/post/142783225467/headcanon-he-does-this-for-living). 
> 
> Warnings: very likely triggering; prostitution; not safe sex; not safe, sane or consensual, imo (please lets not get into the discussion of whether prostitutes can be raped); choking; sadism; vaginal prolapse; degradation; dehumanization; child neglect; dissociation; tragedy.
> 
> This is…very unhappy.

You find Sans at the usual place in Hotland. He’s inside his booth, ostensibly selling hotdogs, but you’ve never seen any hotdogs and none of the customers ever requests them.

  
He sees you approaching and his grin widens, edges twitching minutely.

  
“'Sup?” He greets. “Wanna buy a ‘dog?”

  
“Rather buy a bun, if you know what I mean,” you grit out, slapping your money on the table. It’s a corny, lewd joke, and it makes you frustrated to have to say it, but…this is the code word that had been spread through the Underground: Snowdin’s worst kept secret.

  
“Aw, c'mon,” he looks pleadingly up at you. “why don’t you try one of my 'dogs?”

  
Impatient, you slap him in the face with the money and raise an eyebrow.

  
He closes his eyes and sighs before gesturing you to follow him.

  
This song and dance is always the same, as he leads you to the usual bathroom, to the usual stall with its perpetual 'Out of Order’ sign. A mirror hangs on the wall, surely not standard issue for a public restroom. Bottles of hydrogen peroxide and rags lie amongst the boxes of condoms on the toilet paper dispenser. And on the back of the toilet, underneath the handle, is an industrial-sized bottle of lube.

  
You’re not sure why it’s there. It’s not like he needs it.

  
Both of you ignore the condoms, you’ve already paid in full not to use them.

  
He moves to undress, but you stop him. You like the look of him mostly dressed, only his ass hanging out. It’s makes him look desperate, that he’s so horny for cock that he can’t even disrobe properly before begging to be fucked.

  
You, on the other hand, like to strip completely; like to relish in the waiting; love the wide-eyed look of expectation he shoots you over his shoulder, bent of the toilet as he is. You love the way he fidgets out of desire to complete the transaction.

  
But you take your time, neatly hanging up your clothing. After all, you bought this: his time and his body, and you’re damned sure you’re not going to let the whore rush you.

  
He doesn’t get control.

  
Wearing only shoes and socks, you line up behind him before thrusting in.

  
He’s wet-he’s always wet, the bitch-and you force yourself inside to the hilt in one stroke. He makes a little choking sound, like you’ve punched him. It’s an apt enough comparison, you suppose.

  
In the mirror, you can see him, face flushed and mouth hanging open. It’s probably there for his customers, but from the way he’s staring at his reflection, it seems like he _enjoys_ watching himself be fucked, the narcissist.

  
Usually, you don’t spare much attention to the mirror, but today you do. You want to see his reactions.

  
You pull out slowly and can feel him gripping you tightly, like his body doesn’t want to let you go, until only your glands are inside. You thrust back inside in measured strokes, not nearly as fast or as hard as when you first opened him up.

  
This is the pace you set, for now at least. You glance in the mirror to check his reaction. He looks surprised then confused. This isn’t your normal pattern. But as you continue, not deviating, not _degrading_ him, he starts to relax and look cautiously hopeful, relaxing marginally, glad for the reprieve.

  
That’s what you want. That’s the expression you want!

  
This is going to be fun…

  
You fuck him, restraining yourself. It’s not gentle. You don’t really do gentle, but you are, dare you say it, gentle _manly_. You let your hands wander, slipping under clothes and running along bones.  
He flinches at that, expecting pain, but your hands tease, fondle, _brush softly_ against bone and cartilage. And slowly, _oh so slowly_ , he begins to relax into your touch.

  
You continue in this manner, holding back until he gets used to this, drops his guard; holding back for the right moment; holding back so he doesn’t get spooked. So he falls into the sensations, unheedful as your hands roam up his body, over the flare of his ribs, fingers dancing over his shoulders to wrap low around his neck, resting against his collar bones.

  
And then, you stop. You’re seated fully inside him, and as he opens his eyes, looking confused, you start to tighten your grip.  
His eyes flick up to yours, meeting in the mirror. He looks almost shocked and you hate that, that he’s not fully shocked, that he doesn’t meet your expectations.

  
Little shit.

  
He’s struggling, trying to escape. But between your hands on his neck and you dick in his cunt, there’s nowhere he can go, not even with his little shortcuts.

  
You grin.

  
With every flail, every struggle, he tightens around you even as you tighten your grip around his neck. You squeeze the sides, the front, crushing the delicate passageways, obstructing his magic and air flow. And in turn, his body squeezes around you until you feel as though you’re encased in a vice. His walls are squirming, pulling you deeper even as he thrashes around to free himself.

  
You go to pull out, to punish him from the back as well as the front, only to realize you can’t move, that you’re locked in place as firmly as your hands are locked around his throat.

  
Fucking slut, thinking he has control.

  
Using his neck as leverage, you pull forcefully exiting his body, feeling something give inside of him. He’s truly shit-faced, tongue hanging out, slobbering everywhere, gasping for air. You’re sure if he could, he’d be begging.

  
You manage to pull out, his insides still clinging to you.

  
And you stop restraining yourself.

  
You shove back inside, fucking him with your cock and his own cunt, feeling his struggles weakening until they finally cease.

  
You let go of his neck, and, no longer supported by anything, his upper-half falls, head landing in the toilet, _where he belongs._ But even as the rest of his body lays unmoving, his meat is still quivering around you, jumping with contractions.

  
You ride his body until you find your release then step back and fish him out of the toilet.

  
He looks pathetic, lying crumpled on the floor, barely alive and body destroyed.

  
As you dress, you feel satisfied, and before you leave you tuck some more money between his ribs.

  
~*~

  
Grillby is the one who finds Sans, worried after Papyrus had come to him, sobbing that he couldn’t find his brother.

  
He tells Sans this, flames subdued, and watches as his friend deflates.

  
“I know Grillz, but…” Sans trails off. “I need the money,” he finally says, not looking up. “Papyrus deserves the best, and I’m almost done with college. It’s only for a little more.”

  
Grillby brightens, latching onto the second statement. If it’s about money, that’s something he could fix.

  
He outlines his idea to Sans, sparking slightly in excitement. 

  
Sans smiles a true smile for the first time in a while.

  
~*~

  
Standing on a chair, Papyrus preps the stove, carefully following the directions Sans had left.

  
He’s an easygoing child, always happy and always understanding. It’s why he doesn’t pout when Sans starts working longer hours. His brother is happier even if he comes home later and he’s often tired and he doesn’t have as much time for Papyrus between his work and his studies.

  
It’s not that he really _needs_ Sans. Papyrus is eight, and that means he’s an adult! And adults don’t whine, or feel abandoned. And most importantly, adults can take care of themselves.

  
Oven mitts on, Papyrus stands tippy-toe and reaches over the stove for the oil. The bottle is large and heavy and, on second thought, maybe he shouldn’t have placed it there. And maybe he should’ve taken off the mitts. It’s kind of hard to hold onto the bottle with them…

  
He’s carefully pouring the oil into the pan when the bottle slips out of his hand. It crashes to the counter, spilling everywhere.

  
Papyrus panics as flames start racing along the counter and down the floor, greedily consuming the oil. He grabs a glass, fills it with water and pours it over the nearest bit of flame.

  
It doesn’t help.

  
He goes to the sink and twists both taps as far as they can go. Then he plugs the sink. Maybe if he floods the kitchen the fire would go out?

  
He turns and looks around the room and his heart stops. Flame is licking the wall paper and climbing up the curtains to touch the ceiling. Even as he watches, it starts to frame the doorway before crawling into the living room.

  
Papyrus wants to leave, can feel fear washing through him. But maybe he could fix it? Because, he realizes with dread, he’s made a _huge_ mistake and Sans is going to be _so_ _angry_. But maybe he’d be less angry if Papyrus put out the fire. Like maybe he’d only be grounded until he was thirty instead of being grounded for the rest of his life.

  
Papyrus is in the middle of filling his fifth pan when Sans bursts into the house, grabs him and teleports them both out.

  
~*~

  
Sans feels like screaming, like throwing things against the wall, like throwing _himself_ against the wall. He doesn’t. Papyrus is sleeping in the bed next to him, and he’s sure the innkeeper wouldn’t be happy about the racket.

  
The last thing he needs is to get them both evicted.

  
Sans reaches inside his hoodie and tears open a ketchup packet, downing it with one suck.

  
Even before Papyrus had burnt down the house (and Sans couldn’t even blame Papyrus for it. It wouldn’t have happened if he’d been there, cooking like usual instead of having a kid try to operate a stove unattended), the bills had been piling up.

  
Grillby’s job was great. It was nice not having to sell himself, to not feel ashamed over his job, **_to not feel like he was a stranger inside his own crappy body_**. But it didn’t pay the same. He had to work eighty hours a week just to make a fraction of what he made…before.

  
He couldn’t work this job AND parent Papyrus AND continue his education. He…just couldn’t. And Sans feels like screaming again, like hurting something or somebody or himself as he realizes he is trapped. Trapped by a no-win situation. Trapped by the ugly _ugly reality. Trapped because there is no other choice to be had._

  
~*~

  
You find Sans at the usual place in Hotland. He’s inside his booth, ostensibly selling hotdogs, but you’ve never seen any hotdogs and none of the customers ever requests them.

  
He sees you approaching and his grin widens, edges twitching minutely.

  
“'Sup?” He greets. “Wanna buy a 'dog?"

 


End file.
